


C'est la mer allée avec le soleil

by assistdesistdentist



Category: Tintin - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Mutual Pining, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:53:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24763399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/assistdesistdentist/pseuds/assistdesistdentist
Summary: There are times he wonders if Tintin was sent to him by either God or some devil to personally curse him.
Relationships: Archibald Haddock/Tintin
Comments: 18
Kudos: 192





	C'est la mer allée avec le soleil

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from L'Éternité by Arthur Rimbaud.

He watches Tintin bite his lower lip. The butt of the rifle gripped tight to the shoulder, yes, aim down the sights. He squints one eye but doesn’t close it. A bead of sweat runs down the side of his temple. Across the street, their villain holds a pistol to a young woman’s head. They’re in London meant to be meeting a Swiss diplomat, but as always, Tintin meets with danger instead.

“He can’t shoot from here,” their compatriot, a well-off mother clinging to Haddock’s arm, “He won’t make it—my daughter, he’ll shoot my daughter!”

“Relax! Relax, madame.” Haddock doesn’t feel particularly relaxed, but he calms the wailing woman with a pat to the hand regardless. “He’ll make the shot. You can bet on Tintin—the boy can do anything when he puts his mind to it.”

The blast from the rifle nearly blows his eardrums out. The gangster goes down hard, and Tintin tosses the firearm aside at once and starts running, Milou barking at his heels. The young woman is shaken but unharmed, and their villain bemoans a shot to the shoulder. The mother weeps her thanks until Tintin’s shirt is wet, and Tintin holds her graciously.

Police and press gather. Tintin smiles and answers questions and shakes so many hands that his own might fall off, and so Haddock intercepts with some unkind words. The young woman, a pretty thing with golden hair, gives Tintin an embrace. A rather _extended_ embrace, by Haddock’s standards, so he loudly intercepts and leads his companion along. 

It’s not until a mostly uneventful dinner with a diplomat later, when they’ve retired to their rooms for the evening and Haddock is a few fingers deep into a bottle of whisky that Tintin quietly admits he’d been unsure about taking the shot.

Haddock pats him on the back. “Of course you were unsure—a shot like that! You’d have to be inhuman not to be. A lesser marksman and the girl could’ve been hit!”

“It was mostly luck.” Tintin smiles, his blue eyes like sapphires, his gentle mouth. 

“Luck? Luck! Thundering typhoons, Tintin! Don’t give me that. Besides—it’s quite the first impression,” Haddock says. The words feel foreign on his tongue, but he recognizes that Tintin is bound to be interested in the fairer sex one day or another. He’s bound to want a family. This was always inevitable. “That girl was rather pretty, wasn’t she?”

Tintin looks away. “I suppose so.”

“She seemed rather taken with you.”

“Or just grateful I’d saved her life. You know that people get rather emotional in situations like that.”

“Not you, though.” Haddock pats him on the shoulder. “Nothing can rattle you.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right. I know you better than anyone.”

Tintin looks at him, gaze warm. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Captain.”

He lets his hand linger on Tintin’s shoulder. “The same to you, my boy.”

They bid each other goodnight. Haddock continues to drink. He wonders how much longer this will sustain.

* * *

He tries to place when it first began. Near death in Tibet? No, before that—out in the cold nothingness of outer space? Condemned to death by the Incans? Even earlier? When they’d met? Maybe their first collision on the Karaboudjan? 

Haddock smokes his pipe and sits in the garden, while Professor Tournesol trims the roses, and Tintin runs Milou around the estate with a soggy tennis ball in his hand. He debates the intricacies of his affection while watching Tintin crouch down to pat his dog. He ponders further while Tintin dodges and laughs, Milou bounding after him with limitless energy.

They’ve been across the world together, joined at the hip. Perhaps it’s only natural, though he attempts to resist; don’t look too closely at one particular freckle under Tintin’s eye after too much time out in the eastern sun, no don’t let let that gaze dip to the little gap in the buttons of his sleep shirt over a morning pastry and cup of coffee at Moulinsart. Don’t read into Tintin’s grasp, his surprisingly rough hands in the crook of his arm. He’s always known of his proclivities for men—what kind of sailor would he be otherwise—but Tintin. He can’t risk it.

He’s _been_ risking it, of course. Inviting the boy to live with him in this creaky old estate, with its many empty rooms and its riches. It had been bold. Gauche, even—pathetic! An aging relic like himself. And yet Tintin had shown up with his suitcases full of artifacts and documents and let Haddock sit in his rooms and smoke while he hung his life story up on the walls, saying so much and so little. He didn’t own much in the way of clothing or fineries, and Haddock hid his shipments, his recent purchases out of embarrassment for a fortnight. 

As a socialite, Haddock entertains somewhat out of pride, but mostly obligation. Men in suits with their pocket watches and their silver-tipped canes, women in their gowns with their jewelry and painted mouths arrive in expensive cars. Moulinsart holds caterers and pianists and butlers that burden his little mausoleum with evidence of life. He drinks, they talk, and Tintin answers the same handful of questions for the fourth night, fifth night, tenth night in a row.

“But you’re so young!” Madame Bouchart waves a gloved hand. “What of your parents? Do they worry about you on your adventures?” 

“Nothing to worry,” Tintin says. “I’ve the Captain to keep an eye on me.” 

“He’d better,” she continues. “Heaven forbid you don’t live long enough to give them grandchildren. How disappointed they would be to have the family line end with you!”

“Disappointed? _Disappointed?_ How disappointed they’d be if he got shot to death, I imagine!” Haddock exclaims. “Who gives two figs about grandchildren if the boy’s got his brains splattered out, I imagine that’s a sight more ‘disappointing.’”

The Boucharts smile thinly at his obvious lack of social mores. Tintin kindly changes the subject.

It’s much later in the sitting room, Tintin with his face in a newspaper and Haddock into the bottle that he jibes, “Nosy nitwit. Imbecile! Gossip! Poking around into your private life, asking after your parents! The nerve.”

He’s never asked after Tintin’s parentage, either, of course. It didn’t seem important then, and even less so now. Or wait—did he ask? Was he too drunk to recall? Haddock eyes his empty tumbler, his mouth feeling quite dry. He really ought to quit drinking.

Tintin looks over the newspaper, and there is no cheery facade, only a slow blink of acceptance. “It’s quite alright, Captain. There’s nothing to mention, regardless.”

“Of course not.” Haddock pours himself another glass. A little one. “The subject of your parentage and thereafter is none of their damned business.” 

“It’s no matter at all, Captain.” Tintin smiles, but his eyes crease up like when he’s been wounded and is trying to trek on. “Besides—I’m afraid I’ve no one to disappoint but you.” 

_He’s seen right through you, Haddock, you old windbag. Don’t embarrass yourself any further._ “I’m afraid you could never disappoint me, Tintin.”

Perhaps Tintin has no parents. Perhaps he simply came to be, a fallen star lowered to earth. There are times he wonders if Tintin was sent to him by either God or some devil to personally curse him. A spirited young man with glass blue eyes, unending kindness and patience, a steady trigger finger and a mean right hook. How cruel a deity to taunt him like this with something he cannot have. He’d ruin it even if he tried. He’s quite alright with their current arrangement, even if the depth of his longing threatens to drown him, at times.

A hand over his startles him out of his trail of thought. It’s only a brief pat, before Tintin is burying himself behind the newspaper once more.

“As far as I’m concerned, my life began that night on the Karaboudjan.” He flips a page. “Nothing of import to mention prior to that.”

“Of course. Nothing of import.”

Haddock gulps his whisky and attempts not to completely fall apart.

* * *

In Alaska, they huddle together and watch the aurora borealis light up the sky with green and blue in the hours before dawn. In Germany, Tintin ends up with a dozen stitches in his arm saving Haddock from certain death. In Borneo, they nearly starve to death in a rainforest. In Spain, in the Philippines, in Turkey, Bulgaria, Estonia, Egypt, America—

Haddock’s seen the world twice before, and thrice more thanks to his dearest friend. Once, however, was more than enough. Back from an impromptu trip to Argentina, Haddock lazes about the sitting room and nurses his bruises from a punch up with a diamond smuggling gangster. He’s really getting too old for this.

Why does he continue to chase Tintin across the globe? He puffs at his pipe. Surely spending every waking moment with the lad, dreaming about him in sleep—it’s not healthy. Next time he’ll surely stay at Moulinsart, where he belongs. Distance is a good thing. A proper thing. 

“Captain!” 

Tintin’s footsteps and the answering pit-a-pat of Milou’s paws up the stairs. Haddock looks over his shoulder, but he scarcely needs to call the boy, Tintin knows just where to find him. Tintin’s cheeks are flushed and his eyes are sparkling like he’s sniffed out danger. Oh no.

“Yes?” Haddock crosses his ankles. “What now?”

He thrusts a letter and a ripped envelope into Haddock’s hands. He squints, and reads, “Captain Haddock and Monsieur Tintin, you are cordially invited to a—no, no, certainly not!” 

“A gala, Captain! At the Aubert estate—they’re displaying the Delacroix! You remember that tip-off from Duponts. The art thieves? Surely this would make a perfect cover to steal it right from under everyone’s noses.”

“What matter is it of ours if the painting is stolen? Perhaps they shouldn’t show it off if they don’t want a thief to take it off their hands?”

Tintin smiles at him. “Captain…”

“Absolutely not. You go ahead, but I’m staying here!”

They’re on an aeroplane two days later. After one more, they’ve caught the would-be art thieves, and spend an evening celebrating privately in the confines of Haddock’s hotel room. Tintin’s adjoining room doesn’t feel quite far enough away after a few glasses of champagne. Tintin gingerly sips at one.

They sit at their little circular table on the balcony overlooking the Seine, listening to the sounds of cars and people down below. It’s getting late. Tintin’s got his chin propped in his palm, the other hand idly stroking Milou in his lap, as he looks down over the railing. The cheer of the evening dissipates from his expression, and Haddock wonders if it’s something he’s said as Tintin grows pensive.

“Something on your mind, Tintin?”

“Hm?” He looks over, as if snapped out of a daze. “Ah—it’s rather... silly, I’m afraid.”

“Silly or no, it looks to be troubling you. Humour me.”

Tintin looks at him for a long moment, before turning his gaze back to the Seine below, past the river where Notre Dame stands. It’s a beautiful night in Paris and Haddock doesn’t think there’s another place he’d rather be than here, right now. If he could bottle this moment he could subsist on it for the rest of his life.

“It’s... sometimes I fear what tomorrow will bring, I suppose. I worry about the future.”

A little niggle of worry starts in Haddock’s chest. He pours more champagne for himself, and for Tintin even though he knows he won’t drink it. “Not like you to worry yourself with useless things. Besides, surely you’ve had enough of the future to last a lifetime out in space. I certainly did.”

“You’re right. No sense worrying.” Tintin doesn’t look satisfied. He sighs. “I said it was rather silly, didn’t I?”

 _Shut up, Haddock, let the boy speak._ He bites his tongue, attempting to calm the desire to explain away the boy’s feelings further.

“It’s just that… we can’t go on this way forever, can we?” Tintin asks, softly. Milou snuffles in sleep under the meditative movement of his slender hand. 

His heart starts pounding in his chest. He swallows more champagne. “Blistering barnacles, Tintin—wherever in the world did you get that idea?”

Tintin shoots upright like he’s been discovered doing something naughty. His face is a warm shade of peach pink when he rubs the back of his neck. “Surely you’d like to retire someday soon, Captain?”

“Is that what this sudden morose is about? Me and my useless blustering?”

It should be shocking to him that Tintin would take him seriously. He knows of his tendency to talk out the side of his neck, not sparing a moment of thought to his words. He never thought Tintin would take them seriously.

“Maybe…” In the shadows of night, the candle on the table, Haddock can make out the shy smile on his companion’s face. “Sometimes I close my eyes and it’s as if nothing’s changed.”

“And nothing will change,” Haddock insists. “Neither one of us is going anywhere. Cast the very thought from your mind.”

“Isn’t it inevitable?”

The urge to reach across the table and shake him seizes Haddock. He quells the desire by polishing off his glass, then setting the tiny glassware down on the table as delicately as he can. “Did you hit your head today? Enough with that.” It’s not like Tintin to be particularly introspective. If he is in fact prone to bouts of navel gazing, he keeps most of it in his head. 

“I’m sorry, Captain. I didn’t mean to lower the mood.” 

“No need to apologize.” Haddock waves a hand in dismissal. “No need to worry, either. My bark is worse than my bite—you know that.”

Milou snuffles in sleep, kicking his little feet in Tintin’s arms. He cradles him closer to the chest, scratching his chin. Haddock picks up his glass, and they resume their quiet watch of the streets of Paris.

“Do you ever think of how incredible it is that people—just people!—built all of this?” Tintin exclaims. “Notre Dame, the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower… how incredible that anyone would dream up such places to begin with. It’s beautiful.”

Haddock wants to say he doesn’t particularly think at all, because he doesn’t see the world like Tintin does. He sees people about, he sees a museum as a museum, and a church as a place he’d never set foot inside. The location has never been of terrible importance to him. When he looks at the side of Tintin’s face and the soft lines of his jaw, the wick of ginger atop his head, only then he understands why men build cathedrals.

Tintin cocks his head, exhaling towards the sky, where the moon hangs low over the city. “I wonder… do you think they’ll ever build cities up there, one day?”

“Maybe in your lifetime, lad. Not mine.”

“Perhaps,” Tintin murmurs.

They return to Haddock’s room until the last hours of night, Haddock with a whisky and a book in his hands he’s pretending to read and Tintin writing by lamplight. Every time Haddock suggests it’s getting late, Tintin says he’s almost finished. Haddock’s nearly starting to nod off in his chair when Tintin finally rises.

“Come on, old man. To bed with you.”

He’s lifted out of the chair by his companion’s steady grip around his elbow. Haddock feels the alcohol on his feet, and he’s thankful he’s already had the sense to change into his dressing gown and pajamas. He looks at Tintin and thinks he looks awfully sweet in his sleepwear, puttering around his room—almost as if they’re going to bed together. What an absurd thought!

He stumbles over to bed as Tintin closes the curtains. Legs dangling off the edge, he listens to the sounds of Milou yawning and stretching on the floor. Tintin returns to his side, and Haddock pats him on the arm.

“Goodnight, Tintin.” 

“Goodnight.”

For a moment he thinks to ask Tintin to crawl into bed with him. They could just sleep together, in the same space. They have in the past, of course, when the situation calls for it. Tintin would not think it queer of him. He thinks by the soft, open shape of his mouth, the draw of his brows, that Tintin might even want him to ask.

_It’s the alcohol, you old fool. Don’t read into things that aren’t there._

He catches Tintin’s eyes in the warm yellow light, and Tintin returns his fond smile. Haddock watches the boy leave for his adjoining room with Milou padding dutifully behind him. Then, he falls asleep the manner he always has—fitful, drunk and alone.

* * *

Through the summer there are many nightly occurences of Tintin dragging him to bed, and mornings spent pulling himself together. Things perk up a bit by late July, when a telegram arrives from Captain Chester. A bit of back and forth, and his friend is due to arrive in a matter of days. Old Chester provided comfort to him on those many nights at sea. Perhaps now he could provide some momentary relief from the current object of his obsession, or even just the comfort of being with someone who _knows_. He bids Nestor to prepare a room, and avoids telling Tintin altogether, at first.

The thought of them all being in the same room drives him to drink his lunch, and by the time Tintin finds him in the study he’s about to slide off his chair and onto the carpet. 

“What’s got you out of sorts, Captain?” Ever the boyscout, Tintin helps him right himself then takes the opposite chair. He leans in so close it gives Haddock the distinct impression that he’s about to be scrutinized.

“Nothing, Tintin, why, nothing at all.” It comes out more of a gurgle. 

Tintin raises an eyebrow. Always seeing right through him, his boy. “Captain…” 

Haddock clears his throat. “Do you recall my good friend Captain Chester?”

Though Tintin had only met him once, the boy had a truly brilliant mind for names and faces. “Of course! We met in Iceland, right?” 

“Yes, that’s the one. The Sirius is docking at the port of Brussels in a fortnight. Chester will be arriving at Moulinsart to stay for a short visit.”

Tintin smiles. “How wonderful! Surely you must be looking forward to his arrival?”

Haddock says yes, even though the hopeful look on Tintin’s face makes him want to deep-six himself into the sea. He’s not allowed to look excited when this is purely meant to sate Haddock’s lust. He wonders if he’s truly looked that haggard these past months, that Tintin thinks this will do him some good.

Captain Chester arrives on a Friday evening, whistling at the sight of the manor. “Done well for yourself, Archibald, have ya?” His moustache is slightly overgrown, his skin golden from the sun, and his frame filled out with the trappings of middle age—nothing of the rakish young man Haddock had known in his youth. Then again, he was hardly the man he used to be either, though he does look a fair sight better than before he met Tintin. 

“Lovely to see you again,” Tintin says, shaking his hand.

“And to you, lad! Dragging this old dog off into space! I want to hear all of your journeys.”

They converse over dinner, Tintin doing the bulk of the talking, Tournesol chiming in here and there. Haddock doesn’t drink alone and spirits are high, his guilt somewhat abating as it seems Chester only came to hear his companion speak. It’s true that Tintin is a fair sight more interesting than him. He’s got years of life left. Haddock’s on the wrong side of forty—their shared past be damned. Tintin is bright and engaging, and his laughter fills the room. 

After dinner, drinks. Tournesol returns to his workshop, and Tintin continues sipping only tonic water as the other men imbibe. 

“It seems as though you two have packed a lifetime of experiences into a few short years,” Chester says. “Though your captain and I have a fair share of our own.” He turns to Haddock, who feels the ground open beneath his chair. “Don’t we?”

“Aye, we do.” He hopes the trepidation in his voice goes unnoticed.

Tintin refills their whisky glasses, though Haddock notes his is slightly less tall. He reaches down to pat Milou as he takes his seat. He’s leaning forward in that same inquisitive way that makes Haddock start to sweat.

It’s not as though he believes Chester will say anything untoward or that would reveal him to Tintin, but their initial parting had not been entirely amicable. Surely the years have healed the hurt. 

“Twenty years is a long time. The Archibald I met back then was a foulmouthed bruiser who drank too much, smoked too much, and had a distaste for just about everyone he met.”

“I’m afraid not much has changed, then,” Haddock laughs.

“Why Captain, that’s not true!” Tintin slaps his hands down on the table. 

Chester claps a hand down on the boy’s shoulder. “I suppose your boy is right! The manor and the fancy clothes are a real change.” 

Haddock reaches for his drink, suddenly feeling like a buffoon in his suit and tie. “Oh, enough.” 

“It’s not true,” Tintin says, more seriously this time. “The captain is one of the finest men I’ve ever met. He’s kind, and brave. There’s no one I’d rather have at my side.”

Haddock sits momentarily gobsmacked at the fire in his companion’s eyes. Chester guffaws and pats Tintin on the back a few more times, and apparently doesn’t notice the sour look the boy sends in his wake. Tintin’s ire is not often observable, but Haddock’s gotten rather skilled in it over the years.

“You oughtn’t make his head any bigger, Tintin,” Chester says. “Although you speak the truth. Our dear Haddock is one of a kind.”

He feels his face reddening, and he masks it by busying his hands with drink. God help him.

“I wouldn’t have tolerated him for twenty years if he weren’t the special sort. We lived in each other’s pockets, out at sea. The man saved my hide more times than he’ll ever give himself credit for.” Chester laughs. “Old fellow, do you remember that one time we docked in Hamburg, with the washerwoman’s golden tooth and—”

“Save me that particular story,” Haddock groans. “Any story but that one.”

Chester prattles on for a while with the misadventures of their youth. Haddock can’t help but get caught up in it with him. Had he forgotten so much? Some of the stories seem as though they happened to someone else entirely, but most of those years had been soaked in whisky. Surely it wasn’t him, and it was someone else? He laughs and shouts and chimes in and he and Chester are nearly clinging to one another with laughter after recounting the bar brawl in Florence.

He only glances back to Tintin when the boy stands. “Tintin, where are you going?” Haddock asks.

Tintin smiles, softly. “I believe I have a report to finish up before bed. I’ll leave you gentlemen to it.” He extends a hand across the table. “Captain Chester.”

“Tintin,” Chester says, shaking it.

Haddock starts. “Tintin—”

“See you in the morning,” Tintin says, before disappearing from the room.

With Tintin gone, the air feels heavy in the room. Chester glances at the door, then moves his chair closer, and tops off both their glasses. They talk about nothing for a while, until it’s long dark outside, and the house is quiet. 

“Quite protective of you, isn’t he?” Chester says. “Tintin, I mean.”

Haddock’s hackles raise. “What of it?”

“Nothing at all! I’m glad you’ve someone to take care of you in your retirement. Heaven knows you deserve it after everything.”

“Take care of me?” Haddock snorts. “I can take care of myself.”

That wasn’t entirely true, but he didn’t want to give Chester the wrong impression regarding the nature of his relationship with the boy. Though his exploits with Tintin around the globe were well known, there were sides of their relationship that were rather private.

“Of course you can, Archie.”

Archie. God, all it takes is one word and he’s catapulted back in time. Haddock looks uneasily over the rim of his whisky glass, taut as a wire. Of course he’d anticipated this outcome when he’d first answered Chester’s telegram, but sitting there in Moulinsart with Tintin within the same walls, he feels rather disgusted with himself. Even worse, for insinuating that Tintin was _that_ to him.

Haddock lowers his voice marginally. “It’s not like that. Tintin and I.” 

“Of course not.” Chester winks. It wasn’t ‘like that’ with them either, for nearly twenty years. It could never be out in the open. Didn’t make the heartbreak any easier.

There’s a brief hollow of silence between them. Then, Chester’s eyes soften.

“Ah…” 

“‘Ah’ what?” Haddock gripes.

“He doesn’t know, does he?”

“And he won’t.”

Another horrific silence. Haddock squirms in his chair, and fights the urge to start yelling. No sense waking the entire house.

“He can’t,” Haddock continues. 

Then, Chester reaches across the table and puts his hand over Haddock’s. He lets it sit there for a moment, with the intention lingering in the air.

“ _I_ can’t.”

A flicker of emotion passes Chester’s face, and he pulls his hand away. He takes a drink, and as soon as it happened, the moment has passed.

The rest of Chester’s stay is amicable. Regardless of his intentions, or the circumstances thereafter, it’s a relief to see his old friend. They don’t talk about the past, or about Haddock’s current predicament, but the knowledge of their conversation weighs on him. Tintin disappears into his notebooks for the duration of the visit, but comes to see Captain Chester off when he leaves the manor.

They watch the car drive off the property, and Tintin squints against the sun as it sets over the horizon. Haddock sighs and puffs at his pipe.

“Do you ever miss it?” Tintin asks.

“Miss what?”

“Your days at sea. Do you miss them?” 

“Sometimes,” Haddock says, cautiously. Tintin’s got that look about him, like he’s about to be dragged off on some adventure.

“Perhaps we’re due for a vacation,” Tintin says. “It’s been awhile, hasn’t it, Captain?”

“It has.” 

“Let’s go sometime, then.” Tintin turns to look at him, and Haddock holds his breath. “Just the two of us.”

He wants to laugh or say something smart or deflect. He can’t bring the words to come out. Instead he nods, returning Tintin’s smile. “Aye, Tintin. Sometime.”

* * *

Sometime becomes soon, and before Haddock knows it he and Tintin are boarding his recently purchased yacht—just the two of them, as Tintin said, with Milou tagging along. It’s sweltering and humid in the last days of summer, and Haddock’s already sweating under his shirt as they cast off from the harbour. There’s only one cabin onboard with two narrow bunk beds, but they’ve stayed in smaller spaces together.

It’s a beautiful day and they make the most of it. They sail through the morning, down southward through the English Channel, the sun high in the sky. In the late afternoon they anchor along Côte d'Opale, and Haddock sits and smokes his pipe as Tintin attempts to cajole Milou into the water.

“Are you sure you don’t want to join me, Captain? The water’s rather warm.” 

Tintin’s bare shoulders are pink from the sun, and his nose is sprinkled with new freckles. He’s almost obscene in his swim trunks. They’re too small, too short, his pale inner thighs too exposed. Haddock’s relieved they’re out in the middle of nowhere so that no one else can see him this way. Water runs in rivulets down his chest, and his nipples are tight and pink from the air. Haddock tips his hat down and steals glances where he sits in his deck chair. He tries not to feel guilty when Tintin stretches his arms overhead, and his eyes trace the pale hair on the hollows underneath, and downward to every divot of his pale ribcage.

“I’m quite alright in my current state.” If he stood up, Tintin would certainly see what that ‘state’ was. Best to stay seated. “You go on ahead.”

He watches Tintin dive into the water and disappear beneath for what seems like hours, and Milou lays down beneath his chair when he wears out first. He could never tire of this. On the sea, Tintin enjoying the sun without a care—perhaps things could stay like this.

They sail further south. The air cools with the setting sun, and by the time they stop for the night in a small inlet, the stars are bright in the sky. The boat rocks beneath them as they sit on a blanket on the deck, eating bread, cheese, fruit. Milou snaps up bits of cured meat when offered, but mostly behaves himself. Tintin has a second glass of the wine Haddock brought along, a surprise in itself. His mouth is dark but his eyes are light as he laughs at a story Haddock’s certain he’s told a hundred times.

He’s not sure if the flush on Tintin’s face is from the sun or the wine. They’re sitting close enough that their knees touch, and he can smell the salt on Tintin’s skin. God, he has to get a hold of himself. He has to stop staring at Tintin’s lips and wondering what harm it would do to lean in and taste them.

Though the mood is light, he can tell something is on his young companion’s mind. The talking dwindles, and they sit in silence. Over the years, he’s learned to sense Tintin’s moods. The way his shoulders pull up to his ears, the curve of his back. This night has Tintin fidgeting with his hands, glancing over his shoulder as though someone may be watching out in the dark of the ocean. Though only naked cliffs watch their backs, the sense of being watched by something unknown seems to give Tintin pause.

“It’s so quiet out here,” Tintin murmurs. 

“It is.” Haddock’s already polished of the wine. He’s thinking about the second bottle. Or did he already drink that, too?

“How did you ever stand it? Didn’t you get lonely out here?”

“Lonely? Heavens no, of course not.” He meets Tintin’s eyes, for a moment. “Sometimes. The nights, you know.” 

“I know.” Tintin smiles at his befuddlement. “I used to live alone before. I didn’t have many close friends.” He looks down to where Milou is snuffling in his sleep, and gives him a pat. “Besides Milou, of course.”

Haddock has the urge to joke, to say something ridiculous to ward off the horrible feeling of vulnerability inside of him. The things that boy made him feel! He’s much too old for this.

Tintin stands, then. Haddock watches him walk to the edge of the vessel, resting his arms against the railing. After a moment, and despite his better judgement, he follows after the boy to stand next to him. Their shoulders brush, but they stand like this all the time. He can scarcely remember a life before he had Tintin within arm’s reach at all times. 

He looks at his young companion. A slight burn has settled in across the bridge of his nose and the high points of his forehead. His eyes seem bluer, somehow, with the water reflecting up at him. Tintin looks up at the sky, and points at a mass of stars.

“What’s that one?” he asks. 

Like he doesn’t know. Haddock knows that Tintin knows. The boy is smarter than he ever lets on, knows more about the world and even beyond it than he’d ever admit. He doesn’t know what game he’s playing at, but Haddock goes about tracing the shape of the constellation with the tip of his finger. 

“That would be Virgo,” Haddock says. “You see there, lad? Ursa Major. Follow the handle. Arc to Arturus, then speed on to Spica.” 

Tintin loops his arm into Haddock’s elbow. He leans over the rail to follow his movements. “Oh, I see it, Captain! There!”

Clearing his throat, Haddock continues. “Good eye, Tintin.”

He’s at a loss for words. Tintin’s fingers dig into the crook of his elbow.

“What else?” Tintin asks.

Haddock glances at him. “Come on, you know all this.” 

“I do, but I like listening to you.” Tintin glances up at him, then ever so softly, lays his head against Haddock’s shoulder. “I like it when you tell me things.”

He goes very still. He can feel Tintin breathing against him, though the inhales come as tense as he feels. He clears his throat, and continues. “There’s—well, there’s Leo, there.”

Haddock continues on, speaking of stars and distance. Tintin follows the line of his hand, moving closer into his space, until he has no choice but to let the boy stand in front of him. He lets his other hand settle on the rail, gripping it for dear life.

He runs out of stars. Not for lack of trying, but it’s difficult to focus on anything beyond Tintin. Haddock’s chest brushes the backs of his shoulders, and he attempts to pull away. It’s then that Tintin turns, his back to the railing, looking up at him.

Hands on the railing. Steady. He swallows, attempting to look past Tintin’s face, at anything other than the temptation before him. Of course he’s held the boy before, but nothing more than a platonic gesture. He _cares_ for Tintin. He won’t sully him this way.

“Captain,” Tintin murmurs. “Won’t you look at me?”

He looks. Tintin’s brows are drawn, and his mouth curves downwards. He’s got his hands behind him locked around the bars, like he’s about to launch himself off of it.

A nervous laugh bubbles up out of Haddock. He rubs the back of his head. Being around Tintin has always made him feel younger than his years, but here he feels like a schoolboy.

“Don’t laugh!” Tintin says. His face has gone positively scarlet. 

The air wheezes out of him. Slowly, like a great tree falling, Haddock leans forward and rests his face on the juncture of Tintin’s neck and shoulder. Surely this is acceptable. They’ve embraced many times before.

He feels Tintin’s hands slide up his back, up to his shoulder. The touch is unsure. “Captain…”

If he stays like that, perhaps the moment won’t end. Surely he’s lost his mind. He finally raises his head, the tip of his nose grazing the long line of Tintin’s neck, to step back and look at him. The raw look of desire in his young companion’s eyes meets his own, and Haddock draws in a deep breath.

“Tintin,” he starts, “This won’t do. You don’t—you _can’t_ want this.”

“With all respect, Captain, don’t tell me what I want. I ought to figure it out for myself.”

“But—”

“Please,” Tintin says, forcefully. Then, he lowers his voice. “Don’t say anything.”

He shuts his mouth. Tintin presses up to his tiptoes and leans forward. His hands settle on Haddock’s shoulders. The last of Haddock’s resolve runs dry, and he presses Tintin up against the railing, slides a hand to cup the back of his neck and kisses him. 

He tastes of wine and strawberries. His skin smells of the sea. Tintin’s mouth is unpracticed, and the kiss is entirely innocent. No tongue, mouths only partially open. Haddock’s wanted this for so long that he has to hold himself back from devouring the boy entirely. It’s Tintin’s inexperience that holds him back. He’s never known Tinin to be nervous. 

Haddock pulls away, cupping Tintin’s jaw. His hand seems so large against that deceptively gentle face. He knows Tintin could break his arm in three places if he did anything untoward. The knowledge of that, coupled with the hooded look Tintin’s giving him makes him want to be daring. But still, he hesitates.

It can’t be like this all the time. If this continues, it will be kept lock and key between them. A secret. Haddock would never forgive himself if he were Tintin’s undoing this way. His thumb travels the edge of Tintin’s jaw, and the guilt seeps in like a sieve. Did he infect the boy somehow with this side of him? Is this his fault?

“What is it?” Tintin pulls him closer with hands as steady as ever. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Nothing you did. Rather—I’m afraid I simply don’t have the self-discipline you do, lad. How am I not supposed to want to kiss you every day after this?” Saying it aloud weakens him in the knees. He feels like a fool. “You’ll be the death of me.”

Tintin kisses him again. He swears he could die happy like this.

They kiss against the railing for what feels like hours. They’re pressed against one another so tightly that it barely feels like there’s space to breathe. He gets brave enough to run his hands down Tintin’s sides, settling around his small waist. He doesn’t dare go lower than his lower back, even though Tintin arches up into his touch. Their legs slot together and he can feel how much this is affecting his companion, but he makes no move to do anything more than kiss. 

Perhaps Haddock is only delaying the inevitable—he has no idea how to ask Tintin to come to bed with him, or even if that’s appropriate. They’ve known each other for years, but this nervous and eager to please side of Tintin is new. He learns quickly with Haddock’s instruction, but doesn’t initiate anything either.

It leaves Haddock off balance in a way he’s never been with Tintin. He really shouldn’t have drunk so much. He wonders if Tintin hates the taste of alcohol on his breath, but it doesn’t stop him.

When they finally stop kissing, it’s late. Tintin clings to him, eyelids lowering, and Haddock gathers his courage and squeezes his shoulder. “To the cabin, Tintin. Let’s go.”

Haddock haphazardly cleans up the deck so the gulls won’t flock, and then scoops up Milou in one arm and ushers Tintin with the other. He’s unsteady as Tintin opens the door leading inside, unsteady as he places Milou gently on the top bunk. Should he say anything? Would Tintin be offended if he did? He lowers the lights, and then wonders if that is too romantic a gesture. 

He turns, wishing he had a glass or his pipe or even Tintin’s arm to hold onto. Tintin stands next to him, his blue eyes wide, and it appears he’s as flustered as Haddock feels. In the lights, Haddock can see the red, irritated skin around Tintin’s mouth and neck. His beard did that. While they were kissing. God, he’s spent the whole evening kissing Tintin. He wants to pinch himself, but doesn’t.

“So, ah,” Haddock starts. “Which, ah…” He rubs a hand over his face. “Blast it all. I’m no good at this, Tintin.”

“You were doing just fine before.” Tintin sounds nervous again. Wonderful, he’s gone and messed this all up. Anger rips through him. This is why he never made an attempt!

“You told me not long ago you didn’t wish things to change!” He hadn’t meant for it to come out that forceful. Tintin doesn’t look bothered by his outburst, but he tempers his voice. “This is a fairly significant change!”

“I suppose,” Tintin says, in a small voice. “But it doesn’t feel that different to me.”

Haddock draws in a breath, ready to explain, to rationalize, but then Tintin sits on the bottom bed. He clenches one hand on the frame of the top bunk, fighting the urge to pin him down. 

“I’m not afraid, Captain.”

“And you’re damn insane for it.”

“Of course I am! I’ve done nothing but think of you for _years_.” The flush on Tintin’s face goes up to his ears, and he averts his eyes abruptly. His fingers dig into the bed. “I couldn’t wait any longer.”

This gives Haddock pause. He must’ve heard it wrong. 

“...Years?”

Tintin nods. “I told you—there’s no one else I’d rather have at my side. I don’t want anyone else.”

There’s that weak feeling again. Haddock practically collapses onto the bed next to Tintin. He leans back on his hands, and their eyes meet for a moment. There’s no sense in digging himself a bigger hole, so Haddock leans in to kiss him again.

He doesn’t anticipate Tintin pulling at the front of his shirt, dragging him closer. He hasn’t done this much kissing since he was a boy himself, but Tintin seems to like it. If they can just keep to kissing, maybe things won’t be so bad. If he can control himself, perhaps Tintin will come to his senses. 

Tintin pulls hard, landing down on his back on the narrow bunk. Haddock comes down onto his elbows over him, careful not to put his weight down. He hears the clunk of shoes hitting the cabin floor as Tintin toes his own off, until there’s the press of a heel against the back of his leg. He’s still got his boots on for heaven’s sake! Tintin deserves better than this.

He starts to pull back, to set himself right, but Tintin won’t let go, “Wait—” and with a jerk he slams the back of his head against the underside of the top bunk. Groaning, Haddock cups the back of his skull. 

“Great snakes! Are you alright?” 

“Just wonderful!” He rips off his boots, throwing them so hard that they bounce against the wall. Above them, Milou whuffs quietly.

Tintin doesn’t respond. When Haddock finally plucks up the courage to look at him. He’s visibly flustered, his clothes twisted and his shirt pulled open at the throat. When their eyes meet, a laugh rings out of him.

“Don’t you laugh at me,” Haddock croaks out. He can’t help but laugh too. It’s just Tintin, after all. 

“I can’t help it!” Still laughing, Tintin hooks a finger in the collar of his shirt. “Come back here.”

Their mouths meet once more, and all prior embarrassment is quickly forgotten. He can even ignore the pulsing in his skull as their legs slot together, though he’s finding himself in another predicament entirely. He knows Tintin is innocent, and their positioning will only cause things to escalate further. Perhaps on their sides? No, not enough room. Blast it all, he needs to buy a new yacht. Something with a bigger bed.

The thoughts leave his mind as Tintin’s hands slip lower, to grab for the hem of his sweater. Haddock’s hands help him out of it eagerly. They have a mind of their own. With the sweater divested, he starts on the shirt buttons, his mouth tracing the pathway of bared skin down. He pauses when Tintin shies away.

“I like it, but… I’m rather sensitive there.” Tintin’s face is a sweet shade of peach pink in the low light. “Forgive me, Captain. Nobody’s ever touched me like this.”

He already knew that, but hearing it out loud sends a thunderclap of arousal through him. It’s simply unfair the power that his boy has over him, though he can feel where their bodies press together that Tintin is similarly affected. He’s afraid to rush things, even as Tintin’s hands attempt to maneuver him.

“You can’t say these things, Tintin.”

“Please,” Tintin murmurs. “I didn’t mean for you to stop.”

Haddock leans down, pressing his greedy mouth back to Tintin’s neck. He continues with the buttons, until the shirt spreads open baring the skin beneath. Tintin’s blushing all the way down to his chest, but he keeps moving under Haddock, desperate for friction. He kisses him to attempt to placate him, but it’s more to calm himself. There’s so much that he wants to do. 

Tintin’s fingers tangle through his hair, and he makes small noises as Haddock’s hand draws down his chest. He thumbs a nipple, feeling it perk up against his touch. Tintin moans, his hand grasping Haddock’s wrist. 

He kisses lower, his beard scraping rough over Tintin’s chest. His skin is tacky with sweat, his heart strong and fast under Haddock’s mouth. He swipes a tongue over a nipple and feels Tintin arch into his touch. 

“Ah—Captain!”

Sensitive here too, then? Haddock wonders where else he is. Still, he doesn’t want to get ahead of himself. They still have days out here on the water. Pushing Tintin too far, too fast—it won’t do. He rocks his hips down to take the edge off, but that makes Tintin react even more.

They keep moving together like that, without progressing any further. Tintin won’t make a move for it, and Haddock wants to unwrap him in pieces. Tintin pulls him down for more kisses, panting into his mouth. It feels as though this goes on forever, until Tintin arches underneath him and makes a high noise in the back of his throat.

He holds onto Tintin through it, remembering the first time he’d released in another’s arms. He pulls back far enough to look down at his face, at the slightly drawn expression there. 

“Tintin?” he asks, “Alright?”

Tintin nods, opening his eyes. They’re shining with unshed tears. “I didn’t know it could feel like that.”

“That… as in bad?”

“No, no!” He laughs, wiping at his eyes. Haddock has the urge to kiss the tears away, and holds himself back, but only just. “It was good. Fantastic, even! It surprised me.”

He breathes a sigh of relief. Maybe a little of pride. “Ah. Right. Good, then.” 

“I thought I was perhaps doing it wrong.”

Haddock swallows, thickly. “You don’t, er… like doing it to yourself?” They’ve never spoken about these things. It’s strange and uncomfortable, and it’s apparent that Tintin feels the same, as he goes impossibly redder.

“It’s— _fine_ , but I always do it to get it out of the way. I have more interesting things to do.”

“More interesting? More interesting!”

“Don’t say it like that! It’s different now, obviously!”

Truly an innocent, then. Haddock sits back, careful of his head this time, hunched over on the low bunk. He needs a bit of distance. It’s getting difficult to control himself.

But then Tintin sits up, reaching for his belt. He snaps to grab the boy’s wrist, stopping him.

“What is it?” Tintin asks.

“Tintin, there’s no rush.” He’s sweating. His desire is rather urgent, but he can wait. He doesn’t want Tintin to feel obligated. “We’re a few days out from shore.”

“Yes, of course, Captain.” Tintin smiles. “But I’ve a lot of catching up to do, and I’m a very quick learner.”

Haddock doesn’t stop him this time when Tintin reaches for his belt. He’s only got so much willpower, and he’s very bad at saying no to Tintin.

He lets Tintin bring him off by hand, talking him through it. It almost feels like he’s imagining things, imagining the feeling of Tintin’s mouth on his neck, the calluses on his hand that he can feel on every upstroke. They lay together afterward, half talking and half sleeping, before Tintin starts kissing him again and Haddock brings them both off together with one hand. 

Eventually, Tintin is sated and yawning, and Haddock gets up to turn out the light and to retrieve Milou for him from the top bunk. He finds his spot spooned behind Tintin, a broad arm around him, while Milou curls up against Tintin’s chest. Haddock reaches to pat Milou’s head, sighing as he settles in behind Tintin. It’s… comfortable. Too comfortable. Surely this isn’t his life?

Pale moonlight filters through the curtains in the cabin, and the water is calm beneath them. Haddock’s mind is horribly loud, until Tintin speaks into the darkness.

“This is nice. Why didn’t I do this sooner?”

“I had the very same thought.” 

Tintin grabs for his arm, and pulls it tighter around his waist. Haddock’s insides do a strange little flip. He reminds himself things won’t be this easy back on land. That they’ll need to be careful. 

In his arms, Tintin sighs, his hand over Haddock’s. He supposes it can wait. Perhaps it’s alright to enjoy the moment, just this once. 

The rest of their days on the yacht are spent enjoying one another’s company. Alone in the seasalt air and sunshine, Tintin steals kisses from his lips and Haddock feels as things are as exactly as they were meant to be.

* * *

When they return to land, Haddock fears a sudden return to reality. That this was all some momentary break in their shared sanities and Tintin will come to his senses. A male lover, one of his advanced age—certainly out of the question! But then as they land on the docks and Tintin hooks his arm into the crook of his elbow, he breathes a sigh of relief.

For the weeks thereafter, huddled up in Moulinsart, he adjusts to this new paradigm. He’s always been able to understand Tintin intrinsically. The boy’s open face never allowed for much in the way of hiding his emotions, but here Haddock feels offbase. He’s courting Tintin now, he’s allowed to openly show his affections. Their feet touch under the table with Tournesol unawares, and they hold hands when they walk in the gardens in the early mornings. Tintin laughs more and Haddock drinks less.

Or, rather, he tries. The whisky is difficult to give up. He can feel the look of concern when he imbibes too much, though Tintin doesn’t seem to mind when he drunkenly pulls him in his lap to kiss in the study. He attempts to sneak it sometimes, but Tintin can always tell, and gets into a mood that Haddock finds a bit of a challenge now that they’re closer. Tintin is wont to leave in a huff, but they always reconvene later. He resolves to work on it, though he can never resist a second or third glass.

Tintin’s things find their way into his room. A pair of slippers under the bed, a dog-eared book on the end table. Tintin himself most nights, as well. He steals into Haddock’s room after dark and slides under his arm, head pillowed on his chest. They kiss and touch and on one memorable night, Haddock uses his mouth, but he hesitates to go further. Sometimes Tintin pulls away from his arms, gets quiet and introspective after they’re intimate. He supposes it’s new to him. He’ll wait as long as it takes, but his self-restraint is certainly tested.

Once or twice Tournesol almost catches them stealing kisses in the hallways. Haddock is certain Nestor knows—a pair of Tintin’s freshly laundered socks show up among his, and he has a difficult time looking his butler in the eye. The man says nothing, and so they continue on as normal.

Normal. This is not normal. He reminds himself that this hidden paradise of the manor is a temporary reprieve, and when Dupont and Dupond arrive at Moulinsart for their assistance, their little corner of paradise has met its natural end. There’s almost a sense of relief. He’d gotten used to things being too good, too calm. 

An old colleague of Tournesol’s—an inventor—was attending a conference in Athens and has been kidnapped. Of course Tintin jumps at the opportunity to assist, and Haddock comes along, as he always does. He’s gotten rather skilled at assisting Tintin on his investigative work. At the very least he isn’t an active hindrance any longer.

They arrive by plane which Haddock complains about liberally, and meet with their contact at the airport. Soon enough, Tintin catches a lead and they’re off chasing it. Careful questioning, deliberation leads them to a rival of the inventor with a reason to want him gone—hired goons to get rid of him, so that his ideas could be claimed for their own. While the authorities take the man into question, Tintin and Haddock go off in search of the kidnappers, a twisting trail that somehow ends with Haddock chasing after Tintin in the Temple of Hephaestus in pursuit.

Gunfire ricochets off the stone pillars of the ancient building, and Tintin doesn’t return fire. He dips and dodges and runs faster than he has any right to, Milou barking at his heels. Haddock signals for him, and as the sun goes down over the horizon, they flank the gangster from either side.

 _Crack!_ So close to his ear that Haddock starts, but he’s knocked to the ground by his companion. Before he can even start, Tintin’s up and leaping at their assailant, wrestling him for the gun. There’s blood running down Tintin’s arm, but he brings the butt of his pistol down hard on his attacker. He goes to the ground with a heavy thump, and Tintin stands panting over him, before clamping his hand over his bloodied arm. It’s gushing rather than oozing, and Tintin’s face is rather pale.

Haddock gets to his feet immediately, and reaches for him. “Tintin! You’re hurt!”

Tintin smiles up at him, but the pain shows in the corners of his eyes. “But you’re alright, aren’t you, Captain?”

“That’s not the point!”

Tintin starts to sag against him as police and ambulance sirens sound nearby. There’s so much blood. He’s quickly whisked away to hospital, and after he’s admitted Haddock paces the ward back and forth with Milou at his heels. They’d not wanted the dog inside, but none of the nurses dared to say a word to Haddock. He’d scared off all the press and police looking for a statement, besides.

By the time he’s finally allowed into Tintin’s room, it’s dark outside. He grows more worried as he sees his companion, who’s already bandaged up to the shoulder. Buttoning up his shirt with a shaky hand Tintin lays eyes on Haddock, and the smile dies away as he notices the expression there.

“I’m fine,” Tintin says. “Really, Captain, please don’t fret—”

“Don’t you ever do a thing like that again!” He’s yelling and shaking Tintin by the shoulders before he realizes what he’s doing. Milou starts barking. He’s sure every other room in the ward can hear them. “Thundering typhoons—you could’ve gotten yourself killed!”

Tintin looks shocked for a moment, before his bewildered expression turns into a frown. “Captain, please, calm down!” 

“I would’ve been fine! You think Captain Archibald Haddock wouldn’t survive one measly little gunshot?”

“It would’ve hit you in the chest,” Tintin explains to him, calmly. “I don’t regret taking the shot for you, and I would do it again.”

“You’d do it again? You’d do it again!?”

“I can do as I please!” Tintin rarely raises his voice, so he must really be cross. He gently removes Haddock’s hands from his shoulders. “Perhaps you might think to thank me for saving your life!”

What he wants to say is that his life isn’t worth living without Tintin at his side. Instead, what comes out is, “Perhaps you might think before you leap in front of a gun about how it may affect the people around you!”

Tintin looks away. Haddock curls his hands into fists, feeling very much like breaking a window. Why is this so difficult? He should just hold Tintin, but all of a sudden he doesn’t feel as though he’s allowed to.

“Of course. You’re right.” Tintin looks up, and offers him a weak smile. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’ll be more careful.”

God, but he wants a drink. This never used to be so uncomfortable between them. “Ah… good, then.” Haddock scratches his beard. He looks at his companion, trying to collect himself. “Tintin, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s no matter, Captain. You don’t need to explain.”

He keeps his distance as Tintin arranges himself and scoops Milou into the crook of his arm. He wants to reach out as Tintin stands up to shaky feet, but he doesn’t. As they leave the hospital he watches from a distance as Tintin smiles and speaks with the police, the press, and he doesn’t need to intervene for once. 

It seems as though nothing is wrong with Tintin, nothing wrong between them. Tintin is as cheerful and polite as always. He wonders if he’s never known how Tintin really feels. If this mask is as easy for Tintin to slip into as a bottle is for him. He knows he overstepped, but as long as Tintin pretends everything is proper, he has no idea how to apologize for it.

He should’ve never pushed for more. He’s gone and screwed it all up. As they’re ushered towards a vehicle sent to retrieve them to the hotel, he just gets angrier. Tintin’s acting as if there’s nothing wrong, as if Haddock hadn’t just bit his head off for the crime of caring about him.

The hotel is a grand spectacle of a building facing the beach, all lit up like starlight as they make their grand entrance. The adventures of Tintin, star reporter—how wonderful for the employees, who make niceties as the bellhop takes their bags and escorts them to their rooms. Haddock follows behind like a spectre, and Milou keeps looking back at him as if warning him to keep his distance from his beloved master. 

The bellhop stops at a door. “Kýrios Tintin, your room.” He addresses Haddock. “Kapetánios, but yours is further down the hall.”

“Ah, thank you,” says Tintin. He takes his bag himself, despite the bellhop reaching for it. His eyes flick to Haddock. “See you in the morning, Captain.”

“Aye,” Haddock says, feeling very much like he’s about to vomit up his inner organs. “Goodnight, Tintin.”

Tintin steps back to allow Milou inside, and then disappears within. Haddock hesitates for a moment, before the bellhop gestures for him to follow. 

His room is as splendorous and decorated as the rest of the hotel, clean and white with blue fabric accents and a big balcony overlooking the sea. He tips the bellhop handsomely and closes the door, locking himself inside to be mercifully alone. There’s a fully stocked bar at the very least, so at least he has something to drown his sorrows.

He changes into his night clothes. He washes his face under the balmy yellow light, and attempts to calm himself down. Tintin gave no indication of wanting to speak further. Perhaps it’s better to wait. Perhaps in the morning they’ll talk, and things will be as they were. As they were before when? Before this? He doesn’t want things to change. He wants to wake up with Tintin in his arms, before slipping off to his own room. 

Haddock pours himself a glass of whiskey. He knows it will be the first of many, but he can’t bring himself to drink it. He sets it down on the marble bartop with a heavy clunk of glass, then runs his hand through his hair. Damned it all! Waiting around and getting drunk won’t solve things. He needs to speak to Tintin. Immediately.

He slides his feet into his slippers, puts on his dressing gown, and goes to the door. When he opens it, he finds Tintin standing on the other side with Milou tucked under his arm.

“Tintin!”

“Captain,” Tintin says. There’s a high blush on his face. He’s in his dressing gown and night clothes, but the top buttons are undone. The blush goes all the way down his chest to places where Haddock can’t see.

Milou starts to struggle in his arms, and Haddock steps back to let both of them inside. Hastily, he closes the door behind them.

For a moment they simply stand there. Haddock’s heart thunders in his chest. He prepares for the worst. He’s _always_ prepared for the worst, and in this case, he knows it might destroy him. But he’ll do whatever Tintin wants. Anything to set things to right.

“Captain, I—”

“Tintin—”

They both stop. Tintin smiles, and takes a step towards him. 

“Perhaps we should sit?” 

“Of course.”

His heart does a strange little flip as Tintin takes him by the hand. Milou has already staked his claim on one of the cushy armchairs, so Tintin leads him towards the bed. They sit facing one another cross-legged, close enough that their knees touch. Haddock laces his fingers together to avoid pulling Tintin into his lap and kissing him senseless. It’s clear the boy came to talk.

“I’ve been thinking,” Tintin starts, and Haddock’s guts twist, “about what happened earlier today. That I might’ve gone about things all wrong.”

Haddock swallows like there’s a boulder in his throat. “Wh-what kinds of things?”

“I didn’t think about what I was doing when I put myself in front of you. About how it might’ve made you feel. Truly I… well, I don’t quite know how to say this.”

Between them, Tintin reaches and takes both of his hands in his own. Haddock looks him in the eyes and tries to catch his breath.

“I don’t want to live in a world without you, Captain. If—if something terrible happened to you, and I could’ve done something to stop it, I would never forgive myself.” He looks down at their shared hands. “Perhaps it’s selfish of me.”

He wants to say something, to express his feelings, but words are just words. Instead Haddock reaches for Tintin’s chin, tipping it upwards. He leans forward and kisses him.

Tintin melts. He slides into Haddock’s lap like he belongs there, wrapping his arms around his back and pulling him closer. Haddock kisses him like he’s starving for it. The moments of confusion and doubt seem to dissipate. He’ll never doubt Tintin’s affections again.

“You can be as selfish as you want, Tintin,” Haddock says between kisses. “Whatever you like, it’s yours.”

Tintin looks at him through his lashes, almost shy. “I have something in mind.”

Clothing is quickly divested. The bandage on Tintin’s arm is a constant reminder of how close they’d come to disaster. Tintin won’t let him linger on it, reaching to pull off Haddock’s shirt.

Haddock kisses his way down Tintin’s inner thigh, a press of lips against his kneecap as he eases his pajamas down. An item falls out of the pocket, which Haddock retrieves. A small tin of vaseline rests in his hands, and his face has gone a shade of cherry red.

“Oh.” Haddock sits up on his knees so quickly that he nearly pitches himself forward. “ _Oh.”_

“I didn’t mean to be presumptuous,” Tintin blurts. 

“It isn’t, lad. Not at all.” _Gods, Haddock, get a hold of yourself!_ “Lay back.”

He’ll take his time with this. He won’t rush it, and have the boy’s first time be painful or hasty. Damned his fumbling hands! It’s unfair that Tintin seems somehow more calm about this, reclining back onto his elbows with his knees up. The sight makes Haddock have to hold himself so as not to end things prematurely. 

“You’re sure about this Tintin?” Haddock asks, taking the tin at his companion’s offering. 

“Oh, won’t you trust me?” Tintin’s voice is a bit shaky. “I confess I’ve been thinking about it for some time.”

“Have you ever…” Haddock searches for the words. “Experimented? By yourself?”

“No, I—I wanted you to be the first.” His eyes flit away. “It felt wrong if it wasn’t you.”

How is he supposed to resist that? He’s only a man, after all.

Haddock unscrews the lid and dips his fingers into the vaseline. The noise Tintin makes as he presses the first inside makes him more confident, and he kisses the insides of Tintin’s thighs as he eases him open. Tintin is panting and shaking beneath him, his hands clutching the sheets. It’s a sight that will surely be imprinted into his mind until the day he dies.

Haddock spends more time on this than he perhaps should. He likes listening to Tintin moan and doesn’t relent even when he’s near begging. He’s startled when Tintin reaches for his wrist, saying, “I can’t take anymore of this! Please, Captain!”

He hadn’t realized what a needy state he’d left Tintin in, but it suddenly seems urgent now, to be inside of him. Tintin lowers onto his back, pulling Haddock down on top of him. They kiss for a little while, mostly for Haddock’s benefit. This seems more serious now that he’s got Tintin under him like this. 

“Please,” Tintin says against his mouth. “I want you so badly.”

The last of his faculties for more reasonable thought evade him. He reaches between their bodies to grip himself, and pushes in. At first Tintin winces, his body going taught and his fingers digging in where they hold onto Haddock’s arms. The urge to simply thrust in deep takes hold, but Haddock resists, his head dipping to press kisses and murmur soothing words into Tintin’s ear.

Eventually, Tintin’s heel digs into the back of his leg, spurring him on. They begin to move together, and though it’s clumsy at first, they find a rhythm. Tintin’s hands skim his shoulders, his biceps, up his back and into his hair to pull him down. 

Tintin comes apart in his arms more quickly than he expected, but he pulls back to watch every moment of it, every expression. His legs continue to shake on either side of him, so Haddock curls his hands around Tintin’s thighs, pushing them back as he continues moving towards his own completion. The flush on Tintin’s neck and chest is intoxicating, and the relaxed, open expression on his face draws his gaze. He can’t look away, and Tintin holds him until he finds his own end with a punched out sound.

They collapse together in a pile, Tintin drawing him in for more kisses. They stay like that for a time, until inevitably Tintin slides out from under him to go clean himself up. Haddock lays on the bed, sated but already nervous. He’s never been the best at pillow talk that lovers do.

Tintin returns, sliding under the covers. Haddock raises his arm, beckoning his companion to lay against his chest, his hand settling over Tintin’s shoulder. They adjust a little to account for Tintin’s wound, and Haddock feels a pang of regret that he hadn’t been more careful. Tintin doesn’t seem too bothered, but he’s gone quiet again.

“Was that—erm, what you expected?” Haddock asks, after the silence settles in.

“Moreso.” He can feel Tintin’s smile against his skin, the drumming of his finger over his breast. “I confess that I didn’t understand all the fuss until just now.”

“The fuss? What fuss?

“Well, I… I read a lot of books. For research, of course.”

“You’ll have to show me those books sometime.”

“Yes, Captain,” Tintin says. “We have a whole lifetime after all.” 

Haddock sighs. A lifetime doesn’t seem quite long enough.

They doze for a little while. Haddock can’t shut his eyes all the way. Sooner or later Tintin will leave his side, and slip off like a ghost to his own room. He doesn’t want to fall asleep and miss him.

But he does. When he wakes alone in the morning, he swears the bed is still warm beside him. It’s surely the sunlight through the curtains, but he swears Tintin must’ve only just left.

When he goes down for breakfast, Tintin is waiting for him at a little table among the crowd, bathed in pale yellow light. The din of people talking and eating surrounds him, but all his senses center on his companion. No one will ever know what conspired between them last night.

There’s coffee already poured and a newspaper waiting for him on the table. When he sits, their knees brush under the table. Tintin picks up his pen and flips open his notebook, and glances at Haddock when he continues to stare.

“Something the matter, Captain?” Tintin asks, with a hint of a smile.

Haddock laughs, reaching for his cup. “No, Tintin. Something in my eye, is all.”

He sips coffee and Tintin writes. Milou curls up at their feet beneath the table. Somehow, nothing has changed. Nothing at all.


End file.
